


Comfort

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg always knows exactly what Sherlock needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> For 12DaysSherstrade. 
> 
> This is inspired by a prompt from GrinchLestrade, which said: "I’m going to IKEA so Sherlock and Greg visiting IKEA, maybe choosing a new mattress or a new couch because Sherlock set the old one on fire." 
> 
> This is almost the total opposite of that...

Too soft, too hard, too brightly-coloured. Greg knew he was becoming a bit like Goldilocks, but when it came to buying a new sofa, he had to get it right. The colour scheme didn’t really matter. His flat was all beige walls and a dull brown carpet. He wasn’t one for accessorising. 

But still, it had to be perfect. Perfect to spread his work over. Perfect to stretch out on. Perfect to fall asleep on, and watch TV from. And it had to be a sofa which wouldn’t stain when he spilt beer on it. 

No, buying a sofa was an important task, which was why he had set aside most of his morning to do it. But after half an hour in the shop, he was already flagging. 

With a long outward breath, he collapsed down onto a hard leather sofa, frowning as he looked around the shop. This was a sofa for people who sat up straight and never relaxed, he thought. For someone who cared more about aesthetic than substance.

He turned to his left as someone sat down beside him and after a moment of surprise, he couldn’t help but grin. “Hello,” he said.

“No, not this one,” Sherlock replied. 

“Yeah, I was thinking the same,” Greg agreed, sitting back in the chair. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I saw your diary. It said you would be here.”

“Since when do you look at my diary?”

But Sherlock ignored him, hauling himself up and wandering over to the next sofa, a black two-seater. 

“I looked at that one already,” Greg told him. And he had given it a lot of consideration. It was smaller than his current one, but definitely comfier, with cushions he could sink into. And since he lived alone, he didn’t need one much bigger than that. His corner sofa felt ridiculous when it was just one person using it. 

“No,” Sherlock replied, already turning his attention away from it. 

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. Already Sherlock was drifting to the other sofas, but his eyes seemed to be looking through things rather than at them. Greg watched him for a few moments before joining him, dismissing the white sofa (it would stain far too easily) and a grey one with a low back. 

“How about that one?” he asked, pointing to a black two-seater. “Looks comfy.” To prove his point, he took a seat. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Greg patted the cushion next to him. “Want to give me your assessment?”

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock took the seat beside him. “No,” he said, as soon as his bum hit the cushion. 

Greg stared at him. “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“I don’t fit.”

Greg frowned. “Well, you do. Look, you're sitting on it right now.”

“No. I mean, I can’t lie across it, I’ll be too long.”

Greg half smiled at him. “Sherlock, you haven’t slept on my sofa for years. I don’t think that’s something I need to take into account when buying a new one.” From beside him, Sherlock stayed quiet. “Hey. You okay?” 

Sherlock stared in front of them, eyes focused on a couple walking through the shop, pointing out various items as they went. Greg bit his lip. It had been a long time since he had last seen Sherlock this despondent. 

“Bad day?” Greg asked. The smallest of inclines of Sherlock’s head gave him enough information to go on. “How bad? Scale of one to ten.”

“Ten being the best or the worst?”

“Usual scale we always use. Ten is the worst.”

Sherlock stayed quiet for a few minutes. “Six,” he finally said.

Greg bit his lip. “Okay. Well, six. We can work with six. If we can get it down to a four, then I’d say we’re doing okay. You can play your violin for an hour, that usually takes you down to a three.”

Sherlock looked up at the high ceiling, a faint grimace on his face. 

Greg sighed. “Come on. You’ve got to work with me.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

Greg smiled at him, relieved Sherlock was willing to try at least, and stood up, walking round until he was stood directly in front of him. He held his hands out. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Really, Lestrade?” he asked.

“Really. You’re getting up, like it or not. And then you’re going to come with me.”

“Where are you taking me?”

Greg grinned. “You’ll see. Come on, Sherlock.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock took one of Greg’s hands, allowing him to pull him up off the sofa. They began to walk towards the exit.

They’d only managed a few steps before Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “But you didn’t buy a sofa.” 

Greg turned back to him and shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll buy it online. I've worked out which one I'm getting.”

Sherlock frowned and looked over his shoulder. “Which one?” he asked. Greg pointed to one of the corner sofas, a red one. “But that’s exactly the same as your current one,” Sherlock said. “Why would you buy the same sofa?”

Greg just smiled, gesturing to him to follow. “Come on. With me.”

“I’m not a dog,” Sherlock muttered, following his instructions anyway. Greg led him to the tube station, Sherlock not responding as Greg tried to guide him into conversation. In the end, Greg decided to keep his mouth shut. They sat beside each other during the journey, Greg flicking through a leftover copy of the Metro while Sherlock stared into space. 

They changed onto the Piccadilly Line, and finally Greg led him out of South Kennsington Underground Station. Sherlock stopped by the exit, looking around as though to get his bearings. Greg waited for him, patient and content, until Sherlock finally began to follow him down the road.

“Why?” Sherlock asked as they came to a stop.

“Why not?” Greg asked, leading him inside the Science Museum. “We’ve got this far.”

“You know it appeals to the lowest denominator,” Sherlock muttered, turning his nose up as some children jogged past them. “Case in point.” 

Greg grinned and picked up a map. “We’re not going to the fun exhibitions where the kids like to go.” He quickly checked the museum’s layout and they got a lift up to the top floor. He risked a look at Sherlock, who was staring listlessly at the doors. Greg bit his lip, beginning to wonder if he’d called this wrong. Perhaps they were going in the wrong direction on their made-up scale of Sherlock’s moods, headed more towards a seven than down to a five. 

Sherlock got out of the lift first, and then stopped in his tracks. “Sherlock?” Greg prompted. And then the man’s shoulders slumped a little. He began to walk through the exhibition space, and Greg smiled to himself, knowing exactly where he was heading. 

Sherlock stopped in front of the model of DNA, and he finally seemed to relax. Greg fell into step beside him, staying quiet, just gazing at the model with him. He read the blurb about it, and wondered to himself how many times he’d done just that, hoping against hope that the words soothed Sherlock’s restless mind, if only for a few seconds. 

“So, remind me,” Greg murmured. “My DNA structure looks the same as yours, yeah?” 

“We’re about 99.5 per cent the same.”

“That’s quite a lot. Especially since you have darker hair, and lighter eyes.”

“And I’m taller.”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, rub that in, why don’t you?”

A faint smile emerged on Sherlock’s face, and Greg couldn’t help but watch him for a few seconds. This place had never failed to work for Sherlock. It was just about the only place that did. 

“I’m going to sit down there,” Greg murmured, brushing his fingers against Sherlock’s shoulder as he turned and sat on the bench nearby. He continued to gaze at Sherlock, who was stood still, eyes fixed on the double helix. 

Greg had lost track of how many years they’d been doing this. For two of those years, Greg had come alone, heart breaking with the knowledge he would never stand there with Sherlock again. Even months after his return, Greg still hadn’t come to terms with it. He was still bewildered every time he saw him, yet delighted and at peace. 

After a while, when Greg had already lost track of time and was swept up in distant memories, Sherlock turned to face him. He joined him on the bench, arms brushing together, an easy touch between long-standing friends. 

“Number?” Greg asked.

“Three,” Sherlock replied. 

Greg smiled, pleased. That was far better than he had expected. He would have been happy for Sherlock to have stayed stable at six. They’d invented the scale a few months after they’d met, when Sherlock refused to verbalise how he felt on those very bad days where his mind was running away with him and all he could turn to were the drugs. Greg could scarcely believe they still used that same scale. 

“Why did you choose that red sofa?” Sherlock suddenly asked.

Greg hesitated for a second. “Well. Well, you liked it,” he said carefully.

“I hadn’t even seen it.”

“No… No, but I knew if you had, that would have been the one you’d have chosen.”

“But it’s the same as your current one.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “Exactly.”

Sherlock glanced at him and frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Greg sighed. “You don’t like change, Sherlock. And there’s been enough of that lately. So, at least if you ever come to my flat, you know it’s exactly the same as it always was.” Greg turned to look at him, and Sherlock met his eyes, the faintest of smiles playing on the corner of his mouth. “Go on,” Greg prompted, grinning. “Go on. I see that smile starting. Go on, you know you want to smile.”

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock muttered, but he couldn’t hide the twitch on the corner of his lips. 

Greg laughed and reached up, touching Sherlock’s cheek and moving his head to he could kiss his cheek. “You dafty,” he muttered affectionately, before pressing his lips to his skin, still chuckling to himself. He began to move away, lowering his hand and finding Sherlock was still staring at him, eyes just a little dazed. Greg watched him swallow, and his own pulse sped up just a little. God, they had got so close. “Where are you on the scale now?” Greg asked quietly.

“Two.”

“Two,” Greg breathed out. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. There they were. Just the two of them in the darkened exhibition space, alone on the bench, in their place, the one place Sherlock ever seemed to find his balance. A brief flicker of something akin to fear flickered in Sherlock’s eyes. “Shh,” Greg soothed. “You know me. You know everything about me. Just look.”

Sherlock swallowed again, eyes flicking over Greg’s face while Greg sat perfectly still, letting him assess and dissect. He was sure Sherlock would be able to hear the heavy beats of his heart. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “It changes everything,” he said. 

Greg leaned towards him, nudging him gently with his shoulder, as if to tell him to forget it, that momentary tension between them. “It’s okay.”

But Sherlock reached up between them, touching Greg’s chin and lifting his head so their eyes met again. “Why?” he asked. “Why would you buy the sofa I like?”

“Because I like a lot of the things you like,” Greg replied. He smiled easily at him. “Why did you follow me to Ikea?”

“I don’t want you to buy a new sofa.”

“Alright,” Greg agreed, nodding solemnly. “Your wish, my command.”

“I want to go home with you.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve never changed,” Sherlock murmured, frowning. “I think you’re the only thing which hasn’t changed.”

Greg smiled, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s in my DNA, isn’t it? A bit boring.”

“Reliably boring.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “Git.”

A smile played on the corner of Sherlock’s lips. “I can cope with one change.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Kiss me?”

Greg swallowed. And before he had a chance to over-think it, before the moment slipped away, he leaned forward and touched his lips to Sherlock’s. Only seconds passed, the sweetest seconds he’d ever known, the softness, the curve of Sherlock’s mouth. It was just a touch, just the briefest shared moment of connection. Then Sherlock’s mouth began curving into a smile, until Greg was forced to break the kiss, tilting his head so their foreheads touched. 

“How’s that?” Greg whispered.

“Zero.”

Greg blinked and pulled away. “Sorry?”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. “Oh. I mean. On the scale of how bad my day is. Zero. The kiss was…”

Greg began to laugh. “The kiss was okay?”

“Maybe an eight.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Six.”

“An eight or a six?”

“I’ll give you six, there needs to be some room for improvement or you’ll never try hard in future.”

“Alright,” Greg replied with a grin. “But you’re okay?”

Sherlock answered him with a kiss, a longer one, a gently searching one, a strangely familiar one, as though they’d been doing it all their lives. When they broke apart, Greg was sure he saw a quiet serenity in Sherlock’s eyes. 

Greg took his hand, led him outside and together they took the tube to Greg’s flat, and to a sofa he knew he was doomed to live with forever. 

“The things I do for you,” Greg muttered affectionately as they stepped indoors, Sherlock throwing his coat onto the table and stretching out along the sofa. Greg squeezed alongside him, Sherlock moving until he was resting against his side, head on Greg’s shoulder.

Sherlock shifted. He made a disgruntled sound.

“What now?” Greg murmured, closing his eyes and wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, his heart still beating ten to the dozen at the realisation Sherlock was not pushing him away.

Sherlock made another agitated sound. “There’s a spring digging into my back,” he muttered, glaring at the chair. He turned to Greg. “You need a new sofa.”

Greg paused. Then laughed so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks and the only thing that could shut up him was Sherlock’s lips on his.


End file.
